The Map of Love by Ahdaf Soueif Read Free Book Online

him. She doesn’t have to describe the way he walks into a room, the energy crackling off him, the heads turning to look. He walks into every room the way he walks down that long aisle through the stalls, striding, headlong, not a moment to lose. Even at the podium he gives the house the briefest of bows before turning to his orchestra: to work. And it is only at the end, when the stillness has erupted into a roar of applause and he has turned semi-dazed to face them that — after a moment — he seems to see the audience, and then there comes the big smile that catches at the heart, the sweeping bow, the great expansive gesture taking in both the orchestra and the house, the hands clasped above the head. My brother, who can make you feel special simply by recognising you across a room and who flew over at the sound of my voice on the telephone, and sat with me and held me through that long night and helped me see what I had to do; helped me be my better self.
    Isabel is in love with him. And I don’t blame her. She can’t help it. Lots of women couldn’t. And as far as I can see, it never did them any harm.
    ‘Do you ever go back?’ she asked over coffee, after he had given her names, addresses, telephone numbers.
    ‘Where? To Egypt? Yes, of course. Not as often as I would wish. But …’ Again the expressive hands, the rueful smile.
    ‘Do you think of yourself as Egyptian? I’m sorry, this ispersonal.’ She had surprised herself with the question but he answered easily.
    ‘Yes. And American. And Palestinian. I have no problem with identity.’
    ‘You’re lucky.’
    Or unlucky. Look, I have to go.’ The hand raised, this time to get the bill.
    ‘May I …?’ she offers, hesitant because he — and indeed:
    ‘No, no. Of course not. Absolutely not.’
    ‘After all, I
have
been picking your brains.’
    ‘So what? You want to pay for my brains?’ This somewhat sharply — and then the smile: ‘No. That’s all right, my dear. It was a pleasure.’
    ‘Well, you must let me …’
    ‘What? Let you what?’ he asks as she hesitates.
    ‘Perhaps another time
I
could take
you
out.’
    A pause.
    ‘Would you like to do that?’
    ‘Yes,’ she says quietly. ‘Yes, I would.’
    He looks at her, then nods his head briefly, deciding. ‘Fine. Good. I’ll call you.’
    When she leaves the restaurant that Tuesday afternoon in March, she ties the belt of her long camel coat tight around her waist, turns up the collar, thrusts her hands into her pockets, and walks. The entrance of MOMA is lit and welcoming. She turns into the doorway and walks around aimlessly. You can do that in a museum. Not thinking, just being. When she comes to, she is standing in front of a Miró. It makes sense. The vivid blue, the bright one-eyed creatures floating, darting, alert, untethered. Out in the museum shop she buys a postcard. And now the hell of waiting for him to call.
    ‘Mother, I’ve met someone. A man …’
    Isabel is uneasy. She can’t get used to seeing her mother here, in this room. There is nothing wrong with the room — except that it is completely different from any room Jasminewould ever have chosen to inhabit: no flowers, no cushions, no music, no paintings, no small nonsensical bits of silver and crystal to catch the light and beam it back on to veined marble or polished wood. Nothing. Not even a photograph in a gilt frame to speak of a life beyond this place. And Jasmine is still and quiet, in a faded blue housecoat with an edge of nightdress showing white below the hem.
    ‘I like him a lot’, Isabel says. ‘You know, I think you’d like him too. You probably know him — he’s famous. I just wanted to tell you. He’s older than me. Well, quite a lot older. He’s actually in his fifties but you’d think he was forty. He
looks
forty. He’s tall, and he’s got black hair, greying at the temples, very distinguished. And dark, dark eyes, so dark that you think they’re deep-set, but they’re